


Bleed and Break

by Kale-y (PechoraFlow)



Series: Promptober 2020 [7]
Category: Alita: Battle Angel (2019), Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesia, Android Gore (Detroit: Become Human), But all androids are actually cyborgs because this is an AU, Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Whump, Gen, Hank Anderson is Connor and Upgraded Connor | RK900's Parent, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Luther and Kara and Shaolin make brief cameos, Motorball, Part crossover, Part underground fight ring, Protective Upgraded Connor | RK900, because this took me forEVER to write, might do a part two, we'll see if people like it then decide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26890933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PechoraFlow/pseuds/Kale-y
Summary: RK800 is the racer for illegal fights, RK900 is the racer for the legal ones. That's just how it is - it's how it's always been.However, when RK800 is bested by the new racer, North, he discovers that might not be the case. Who is "Hank"? Who is "Markus"?Does he even know who he really is?*You do not need to know Alita: Battle Angel for this fic to make sense.---Prompt: Hands
Relationships: Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson & Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900
Series: Promptober 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947931
Comments: 9
Kudos: 44





	Bleed and Break

“RK800, exit stasis.”

RK800 blinked his eyes open, seeing his owner standing in front of him.

SCANNING…

SUBJECT: ANDRONIKOV, ZLATKO  
NATIONALITY: RUSSIAN  
STATUS: OWNER

“Good evening,” RK800 greeted.

“Get suited up, and place _third,_ got it?” Zlatko said, looking over a tablet in his hands. “Minimal injuries. Your parts cost me an arm and a leg last time.”

“Yes sir,” RK800 said.

“And pull ahead twice,” Zlatko ordered. “Give them a good show, but don’t try anything risky.”

“Yes sir.”

“Go see RK900 for a once-over, then get suited up. You’re in the 9 o’clock.”

* * *

RK800 sat on the bench in the locker room, his arm outstretched. RK900 scanned over it, grey eyes concentrating on the task at hand. He twisted RK800’s arm over, scanned it again, then gestured for RK800 to offer his other arm.

RK800 did so. "Know who’s out there?”

RK900 glanced at him, then turned back to what he was doing. “No. They’re keeping the benefactors anonymous.”

“Any newcomers?”

“One, if you give credence to rumors,” RK900 said, dropping RK800’s arm. RK800 dutifully kicked out a leg, holding it up for RK900 to scan, as usual. “Sir said it was a repurposed model. Could have any number of upgrades.”

“Legal or illegal?”

“Unknown.”

RK800 switched and extended his opposite leg for RK900. “What about the game? Legal or illegal?”

RK900’s lips thinned. “Unknown.”

RK800 looked down at his hands. “I suppose that's why Sir picked me, then.”

“You can’t think that way," RK900 protested, but his voice was quiet. He knew the truth - RK900 was the model for the big, legal events that were televised, RK800 was the model used for scrappier fights. It was cheaper to fix an RK800 than it was to fix an RK900, after all. At least, that’s what Zlatko had said. RK800 had speed and agility, and RK900 had strength and upgrades.

“Your calibration leaves something to be desired,” RK900 said, standing up. “Your left side more than your right.”

“Does it matter?” RK800 challenged, leaning over with his elbows on his knees. “Sir doesn’t want me to win, anyways.”

“He wants you to _finish,_ ” RK900 said. “You have to make it over the finish line. You cannot give up, or finish in any place other than third. You know what he’ll do.”

RK800 nodded.

“The fewer injuries you have, the sooner you can return to stasis,” RK900 pointed out.

RK800 nodded.

“And,” RK900 went on, obviously trying to cheer RK800 up, “if you demonstrate high levels of skill, perhaps he will let you place higher next time.”

“No he won’t,” RK800 said. He offered a small smile. “Thanks, Nines, but I'll be okay. I’ll be back."

RK900 returned the small smile. “Don’t do anything too risky.”

“You know me,” RK800 said, pulling on the sleek white helmet and snapping it into place. “I give them a good show.”

* * *

RK800 was used to the bright lights of the motorball track. He was as familiar with the Thirium-stained tarmac as he was with his own chassis. He knew most of the competitors by their faces.

None of them had names, of course - not in the illegal rounds. AP700, HK400, GJ500, TR400, AX400, all of them owned by different team owners - except AX400 and TR400.

There was only one he didn’t recognize: a WR400, with orange hair, streaked occasionally with blonde. Odd. Long hair wasn’t a popular choice for motorball. Too many times had ponytails been grabbed and used to swing an opponent out of bounds (in legal races) or bash an opponent’s head in (in illegal ones). However, she had hers braided back. Her armor wasn't new, but it wasn’t _used_. It seemed repurposed, as if it had been used for something else and turned into armor. He couldn’t identify the manufacturer, so perhaps his theory wasn’t that far off.

_“RACERS, TAKE YOUR MARKS!”_

RK800 stopped studying the newcomer, standing on the opposite side of the track. He wanted to see how she would interact with the other contestants.

RK900 was nowhere to be seen. He had likely taken his usual spot around the middle of the track, near the end of the tunnel.

He assumed the other models were told which spot to aim for - he had seen what some of the owners did to their androids if they didn’t win in the right place.

But he couldn’t pity them. The same treatment was on the line for him, if he didn’t finish third.

Not fourth, not second.

Third.

The light indicators blared red.

Yellow.

Green.

The ball shot out, skittering across the tracks, and they were off. They traveled in something of a pack, with the HK400 grabbing the ball first. He was always eager, trying to reach first and stay in the lead.

RK800 skated around fifth, neck and neck with the AX400. He had spoken with her a few times in passing - she was nice enough, though he supposed no one would ever really forgive him for what he did to the PL600 all those months ago.

Months? Perhaps it had been months. Perhaps it had been years.

They took the first turn, and the WR400 was staying around third, her braid flying in the wind. Her gaze wasn’t focused on the ball, though - had she played before?

The TR400 skated past RK800 and AX400, and they let him go. He was _much_ taller and stronger than the both of them - if he wanted to muscle his way to first, they would have to let him and trick him later.

Sure enough, the TR400 grabbed the HK400 by the arm, one hand on his shoulder. He forced the HK400 down, holding his face dangerously close to the tarmac as they raced at breakneck speeds-

The HK400 dropped the ball, and the TR400 shoved him aside, sending him tripping over his own skates and flipping through the air, only to land in the gutter.

_“AND THE HK400 HAS BEEN DISQUALIFIED! ONLY SIX CONTESTANTS LEFT IN THE RING, WITH THE TR400 LEADING. THEY’RE GOING TO HAVE TO BE SMART ABOUT THIS ONE, FOLKS!”_

GJ500 flipped over the RK800, using the curved track and fence to throw himself forward. RK800 stayed back - he still hadn’t seen the WR400 do anything but race, and he wasn’t about to move forward without preconstructing a winning move (especially not with the lower levels of calibration).

They took a particularly harsh turn. RK800 dug his roughened fingers into the track, as always.

The GJ500 chose that moment to make his move. He reached out and grabbed the WR400’s braid, digging his fingers into the pattern. He yanked sharply on her hair-

Only to have her flip backwards, propelling herself off of the railing nearby. She landed and her skates sparked, but she paid them no mind as she promptly jammed a hand against the GJ500’s elbow, bending the joint inward with no hesitation.

The GJ500 jerked, trying to escape her grip, but his hand was tangled in her hair. She seemed to realize the same problem, so she grabbed his arm and twisted, dislocating his hand from his arm. It was a natural feature of his model, which made him easy to customize and upgrade, but for a brief moment, he was caught off guard. The WR400 took the opportunity to _throw him over the railing,_ sending him flying into the audience barrier.

The crowd roared its approval. RK800 sometimes wondered what they came to see - a race, a sports game, or a gladiator fight?

_“NEWCOMER WR400 IS OUT FOR BLOOD! HER NAME MAY BE NORTH, BUT I’D SAY THIS IS GOING SOUTH REAL QUICK, DON’T YOU THINK?”_

_“WHATEVER THIS IS, I’M HERE FOR IT! FIVE CONTESTANTS LEFT, WITH THE TR400 IN FIRST, THE AP700 IN SECOND, THE WR400 IN THIRD, AND AX400 AND RK800 NECK AND NECK FOR FOURTH AND FIFTH.”_

RK800 swallowed - a completely unnecessary action for his model, he knew, but he did it anyway. He would have to take out the WR400, or the AP700. There was no way he could take on the TR400, not when the AX400 was still up and the WR400 was such a wildcard.

They took another turn, then straightened out, approaching the tunnel portion of the track. The others would know that they should keep their eyes on him, as he was notorious for using the spikes that jutted out from the wall to his advantage.

He pulled ahead of the AX400, who let him go - a clear message that she was not a threat to him. He made a mental note to leave her alone.

As soon as they entered the tunnel, RK800 grabbed onto one of the spikes, using it to launch himself into the air. He passed directly over the WR400, then over the AP700, and landed directly behind the TR400. The crowd’s cheers were muffled by the tunnel, but they still roared in his ears.

_“UNBELIEVABLE, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! RK800 DOES IT AGAIN. I GET CHILLS EVERY TIME!”_

_“I GUESS IT’S FREE-FOR-ALL TUESDAY, AFTER ALL! THEY’RE REALLY PULLING OUT ALL THE STOPS!”_

RK800 caught TR400’s eye and established a network connection. _“I’m here for third, but I have to make it look convincing. I'm going to make a grab for the ball - knock my left leg out from under me.”_

 _“Got it,”_ TR400 said back. _“I'll let the ball go in the gutter - we’re coming up on a re-deployer. AX400 needs fourth.”_

 _“I’ll leave her alone,”_ RK800 promised.

Perhaps, in another existence, they could have all been friends. But in the arena?

All that mattered was the game.

RK800 increased his speed, his biocomponents working overtime. He dove for the ball, held against TR400’s right side. TR400 dodged, switching the ball to his other side. He ducked with grace that wouldn’t usually be associated with an android his size, then kicked and hooked a foot behind RK800’s knee, sweeping it out. RK800’s knee made contact with the tarmac, tripping up his momentum.

He fell forward, but turned it into a roll, moving to stand back up and keep skating forward. If he picked up enough speed, he could still claim that third place position as they exited the tunnel-

Someone pounced on him from behind before he could fully regain his balance. He crashed back into the tarmac, face-first. He scrambled to get back up again, using his hands to keep his delicate face plates from experiencing any more damage. The rough track burned his palms as the friction increased, forcing him to dig into the track to avoid losing his balance altogether.

He spotted the WR400- _North’s_ braid by his face. He grabbed it with one hand and held tight, sacrificing his balance as he went tumbling, but she was forced to be with him as they spiraled out of control. Slowly, he rolled to a stop, beaten and rough around the edges, but otherwise in one piece.

_"OH! THAT'S A NASTY FALL. AX400 AND AP700 WANT NO PART OF THAT. IT'S GOING TO BE TOUGH FOR EITHER THE RK800 OR NORTH TO GET BACK IN THE GAME.”_

_No._

RK800 looked up, horror clenching his biocomponents. The AX400 was looking back at him in pity, but she turned back to the race.

The others disappeared around the corner, taking third place with them.

RK800 scrambled to stand, but North grabbed his ankle and pulled. Wearing skates, RK800 slid backwards. North used his momentum to her advantage, standing and swinging RK800, sending him flying into the railing.

His back crashed into a protruding spike, and something _snapped._ Flaring pain sparked from his spine as he collapsed onto the tarmac.

His vision glitched and greyed out, warnings popping up in front of his eyes at a rate too fast for him to process.

_“IT LOOKS LIKE WE HAVE AN ALL-OUT BRAWL IN SECTOR 4!"_

_"NOT SO FAST - THAT RK800 DOESN’T LOOK SO GOOD. NORTH’S JUST GOING IN FOR THE KILL.”_

Cold fear pumped through RK800’s veins. Someone screamed his name from the crowd - _Nines._

RK800 forced himself to look up, seeing North approach slowly. He tried to stand up-

ERROR; BIOCOMPONENTS OFFLINE. UNABLE TO STAND

The fear doubled, choking him as he scrambled to get away from North, trying to drag himself-

A compartment opened in North’s arm and a short spear popped out, glinting in the stadium lights. She was at his feet, close enough to impale him and shut him down.

“N-no, please-” RK800 tried. “Please, I was just- I was just playing the game- I was just doing what he told me-”

“Sorry, Connor,” North said. With no further hesitation, she thrust the spear into his chest. He choked, Thirium flooding his ventilator biocomponents. The crowd roared, just as thrilled at his failure as they had been at his victory. Vaguely, he registered the sound of Nines screaming, the announcers calling the foul play and disqualifying North...

He looked up into North’s face. She was so close...close enough to make out a faint ring of grey in her iris around her pupil, and a trace of remorse in her expression.

Everything went black.

* * *

RK800’s eyes flickered open.

Nobody stood in front of him.

For a moment, he thought he had exited stasis by mistake. Though, upon further examination, he discovered that he was lying flat - Zlatko must still be repairing him.

North had done a number on him. Though, he had been similarly damaged before…

He wondered what Zlatko’s punishment for him would be this time.

He looked to his left, searching for where his owner could have gone, but instead found himself unable to recognize where he was. The walls were pale blue, decorated with picture frames. It was too dark to make out the pictures, but there were maybe five that he could see. Over against one wall stood a bookshelf, lined with organized books of every color. One shelf displayed a small fish tank.

It seemed to be a bedroom of some sort - had Zlatko brought him home? But that didn’t make any sense. RK800 had _never_ left the arena. Neither had RK900, as far as he knew.

 _Nines._ The thought flashed across his mind. If he was in Zlatko’s house, then perhaps Nines was, as well. RK800 decided he should try and find his older ~~brother~~ friend. He had sounded worried, before…

RK800 pushed back the covers and froze.

Those weren’t his hands.

A rush of emotions choked him - panic, grief, confusion… How badly had he been injured?

He sat up and threw back the covers, his hands shaking. His entire _body_ was different. This wasn’t the harsh steel with its numerous scratches and hastily molded scars. He actually had _feet_ instead of the skate prosthetics. His arms were no longer pointed, with spikes on the elbows to jab into the other contestants. His fingers moved with a level of calibration he had never been able to achieve before. Carefully, he stretched his hands out in front of him, curling and uncurling his fingers, twisting his wrists.

~~It felt...familiar?~~

Moving with extreme care, he turned and slid his feet off of the bed. The soles of his feet made contact with the hardwood floor, and RK800 was surprised to realize that he felt cold. Since when was he important enough to have temperate sensory technology?

He eased himself to his feet, feeling so oddly balanced that it actually threw him off, not having to account for the heavy shoulder armor that had been molded to his chassis however long ago.

He moved to take a step forward, but as he was used to moving on skates, his foot didn’t move properly and he fell. Quickly righting himself, he looked around the room, spotting a mirror standing in the corner of the room.

RK800 lifted his right foot, then carefully placed it a little in front of him. It took a second for him to feel comfortable, but then he shifted his weight off of his left foot. One step...two steps…three…

Gaining confidence, he moved across the room, until he stood directly in front of the mirror.

He hadn’t noticed before, but golden daylight streamed in from a nearby window. He couldn’t remember ever seeing light that color before - why hadn’t he noticed it? He had just...recognized it in the back of his head…

He pushed the thought from his mind and instead looked at the new body. It was much more well-crafted than his previous one, made of some sort of metal with an engraved chassis. With a delicate and precise finger, he traced a swirl on his collarbone. The craftsmanship of the chassis alone was obviously top-tier, made by an artist, perhaps, or someone who knew technology like the back of their own hand.

He felt…

What was this feeling? He felt as if his missing rib had been slotted into place, but to his knowledge, he hadn’t been missing any ribs. He felt like he filled out his skin better, but he technically did not possess skin - the feeling was entirely irrational.

Irrational, but complete. He felt... _whole._

Why would Zlatko equip him with a body like this one? It had no special features for motorball - though his agility and stamina was still on a comparable level - and it was much too delicate. His usual matches were violent and wild; this body would almost certainly have to be replaced, and it was likely expensive to do so.

Perhaps this was his punishment. Perhaps Zlatko would give him something beautiful, something so uniquely his but so delicate at the same time, then push him into the arena just for it to be destroyed so quickly.

His eyes fell on a nearby chair, where someone (Nines?) had laid out clothes - presumably for him, as there was no one else in the room.

He dutifully pulled the clothes on, then looked in the mirror and found himself surprised. The clothes were soft and comfortable, obviously well worn yet they fit him perfectly. The black sweater’s collar was somewhat stretched and whatever logo had been on the front had long since faded, and the sweatpants were comfortably loose. It wasn’t anything particularly special, but he could tell whoever wore these clothes had loved the items very dearly.

Someone had washed his hair, as well. He could no longer spot traces of Thirium in it. It must have been Nines. Zlatko wouldn’t care to wash his hair, and he didn’t have the software capability that made both the RK800 and RK900 units able to spot Thirium.

Adjusting his appearance, RK800 left his reflection behind and went over to the door instead. It was left open, for some reason. Quietly, he slipped out of the bedroom, finding himself on the upper level of a building. There were a few other doors on this level, all shut with the lights off. He decided against snooping - Zlatko would be very unhappy if he found him where he wasn’t supposed to be.

He just wanted to find Nines. Then, he’d go back to the room with the fish tank and the picture frames.

Slowly, he inched towards the top of the stairs. Light shown up from whatever room was down there, and the faint sound of voices echoed up to RK800.

Strange… He didn’t recognize the voices. He moved down a few steps-

“- _fuckin’stab him?”_ a gruff voice said. “You were just supposed to make it so he couldn’t fight back-”

“Hank, you need to calm down,” a soothing voice said. “Connor’s out. According to our intel, Connor was the only one held there against his will. We just need to get a message to Richard, let him know that Connor’s safe, and he’ll be free to leave whenever he wants. He’s not there under duress.”

RK800 frowned. He hoped he was listening to a movie; whatever the voices were talking about, it sounded very violent.

Deciding that he could neither continue down the stairs, nor could he go back to the room, RK800 crouched and sat on the staircase, peering through the railing to try and spot the voices. He made out six different people gathered around a dining table, where RK800’s old chassis was lying, just as damaged and brutish as it had been when he had last seen it.

“He’s going to have enough trauma to deal with already,” the gruff voice - Hank? - growled. The voice belonged to an older man, with grey hair so long it could be pulled back into a ponytail. “You really think he can get over it with her always hangin’ around?”

“You didn’t have anything to say about it when I brought him back,” a female voice pointed out - _North._ She sat at the table, her arms crossed and legs up on the table.

_“Sorry, Connor." She was so close..._

Who was “Connor”?

RK800 leaned his head against the railing, the cool metal numbing his racing mind. They couldn’t have been talking about...about _him…_

Right?

RK800 had a sinking feeling this wasn’t Zlatko’s house.

“Let’s not fight,” the soothing voice said. The owner of the voice was a young man with short hair. Of the people in the room, he was the one most directly facing the stairs.

So, naturally, it wasn’t a huge surprise when the man with the soothing voice spotted him through the thin metal bars of the railing.

“How long have you been sitting there?” he asked.

With a jolt, RK800 realized that the man was talking to _him._ The other people in the room stopped what they were doing and looked up to the top of the staircase, catching sight of him.

RK800 straightened, uncomfortable with suddenly being the center of attention. Before he could disappear back into the room he had woken up in, the man that had called out to him rounded the dining table, moving to stand at the foot of the stairs. “It’s alright, we’re not going to hurt you.”

RK800 looked at the man, who, now that he was closer, RK800 could see had heterochromatic eyes. His chassis had been made of a similar material to the one RK800 had, though the man’s chassis was older. Colorful, painted designs poked out of his sleeves, wrapping around his forearms like a second skin.

The man sat at the bottom of the steps. “My name is Markus,” he said. “Do you know where you are?”

“No,” RK800 said. “Am…” He trailed off. Was he allowed to ask questions? Zlatko never liked questions. Who were these people to Zlatko? Did they know his rules?

“Go on, ask anything you want,” Markus encouraged.

RK800 kept his eyes on Markus, trying to ignore the stares of the others in the room. “Are you friends of Sir’s?”

Markus’s face darkened. “No, we’re not.”

RK800’s stress levels spiked.

“Do you remember your name?” Markus asked.

“RK800,” he answered. “Eight, for short.”

Markus’s lips thinned. He must have given the wrong answer.

Back by the dining table, the one they called Hank sank into a chair, head in his hands. A blonde young man (that looked a lot like the PL600 from all those races ago…) put a hand on Hank's shoulder, offering comfort.

Something in RK800 twisted. “Did I make a mistake?”

“No, don’t worry,” Markus said, standing up. He started to climb the stairs, moving slowly so that RK800 could track everything that he did. “You must be confused.”

“Somewhat,” RK800 agreed.

Markus sat next to RK800, close enough to speak in a low voice for privacy but far enough away to respect his space. “I’m afraid you’ve sustained brain damage.”

RK800 frowned. “You are incorrect. I am an android, model RK800, designation, ‘Eight’. I am equipped with a central processing unit, but otherwise, I-”

"He didn’t give you food or water, did he?” Markus interrupted.

“Of course not. I don't need it.”

“Eight, I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but you’re _not_ an android,” Markus said. “You’re a cyborg. Your body may be metal and plastic, but you have a brain. You have a home, a family- and you would remember us, if Andronikov had taken care of you properly. Or maybe he did something to you on purpose, we don't know yet.”

RK800 shook his head. Zlatko had fixed him fine - every time he had been damaged, the parts were replaced-

How many times had RK800’s head pounded? How many times had he explained away a dizzy spell as a mere calibration failure?

If Zlatko had properly tuned his systems, shouldn’t those calibration failures have never happened in the first place?

“Why would I remember you?” RK800 asked instead, shutting out his other questions.

Because what if Markus was right? What if Zlatko had been killing him, all this time…?

Where was Nines?

“I’m your friend,” Markus said, his voice pleading. “We all met you and Richard at Jericho. Do you really remember nothing?”

“No," RK800 said. “My earliest memory is from an unknown date. I remember coming online for the first time, registering my designation, and taking second place in the race. I returned, received an upgrade, and went back into stasis.”

Markus looked almost fearful, his eyes wide. “How many...how many races were you in?”

RK800 blinked, calculating. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but he could count the number of times the command “exit stasis” was ordered. “Approximately four-hundred twenty-one,” he reported

Markus’s fists clenched. RK800 braced himself, ready for Markus to punch him in the face-

“Eight, may I hug you?” Markus asked.

RK800 blinked. “Okay.”

Not waiting another second, Markus moved closer and wrapped his arms around RK800’s shoulders. His grip was loose, as if he were afraid that RK800's frame was too delicate and would crack under pressure.

“I’m alright,” RK800 said. “I will not break.”

Markus’s grip tightened. “I know,” he whispered, then sniffled. “You’re the strongest person I know, Con’.”

RK800 could practically feel his processors working, trying to make sense of what Markus was saying.

It was entirely possible that Markus was North’s benefactor, and that they had kidnapped him intending on salvaging his racing gear, or perhaps throwing him back into racing, this time for them instead of Zlatko.

But why give him a new chassis? Why tell him that he’s a cyborg? According to the law, a cyborg was to have the rights equal to a human’s, which would make Zlatko's activities not only illegal, but also a violation of human rights. _His_ human rights. Because he was human. It would mean that RK800 had been held against his will, experimented on, forced to fight in a gladiator arena and kill and maim for sport…

RK800 returned the hug with shaking hands. It would make no sense for Markus to kidnap him, then tell him he was entitled to a life, to freedom...

~~Conclusion: Markus was telling the truth.~~

After a moment, Markus pulled away, wiping his cheeks to get rid of tear tracks. “Do you believe me, at least?”

RK800 frowned. “I…” He trailed off. Part of him wanted to believe Markus - wanted to believe that he belonged somewhere, that he had emotions and family and a home… But a louder part of him wondered if Zlatko was testing him, if this too was to be ripped away as soon as he reinitiated stasis. He supposed…it _could_ be a simulation, a program that ran when he was in stasis…

"Maybe showin’ him around would…y'know, trigger something?” Hank suggested. He was still sitting in that chair, but he had lifted his face from his hands, intently watching RK800 instead.

“That’s a great idea,” Markus said, practically jumping up to his feet. “You’ve already seen your room-”

“My room?” RK800 asked.

“Yes,” Markus said, smiling and offering RK800 a hand. “Your room. This is your house - though, Jericho uses it as a meeting place a lot, too, so it’s as much of a home to us as it is to you."

RK800 blinked. He had a room? He had a _house?_ He had a _home?_

“Do I have a name, as well?” RK800 asked.

Markus’s expression became very sad, changing in almost an instant. “Yes, you do. Your name is Connor.”

“Oh,” RK800 said. That’s right - that's what North had called him, and that’s who they were talking about, earlier.

Connor.

“You have an older brother, too,” Markus said. “His name’s Richard, though I don’t know what you called him; he was with you, in the races.”

“Do you have a picture?”

“You have several in your room,” Markus said, gently pulling ~~RK800~~ Connor and leading him to the room he had woken up in. “You care about your family very much.”

“Then why is it that I don’t remember them?” Connor asked softly. What did that say about his family? What did that say about what kind of person he was?

Markus didn’t have an answer to that. Instead, he pushed the door to Connor’s room all the way open and flicked on the light.

Connor scanned the room again, spotting the nearest picture frame and walking towards it, ignoring the others for now.

The frame was simple and made of a light wood, but the image was darker. There were three individuals in the frame, plus a large dog. A St. Bernard, approximately 170 pounds-

Off topic.

He looked at the humans in the picture, who seemed to be in some sort of aquarium. They were posing in front of a large, colorful fish tank. He recognized himself (with the same chassis that he had woken up here in…it must be his true body, then), the man from downstairs with grey hair - Hank, and…

“Nines,” Connor said. He looked back at Markus and pointed him out. “That’s Nines.”

“Richard,” Markus corrected gently. “We’re working on getting him out, too.”

“I want to help," Connor said immediately. “Take me back - I can get them out.”

Markus frowned, confused. “‘Them’?”

“The TR400 and AX400,” Connor insisted. “They're just like me. If you send in North, then she and I can get them out, too. And Nines will see that I’m alright, and he can come back with us.”

But Markus was already shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”

“It would _work-”_

“Connor, it’s suicide!” Markus snapped. “No, you are _not_ going back there. That man took you and forced you to fight, for money and entertainment. Do you know how much he made off of you? Do you know how hard it was to track you down in the first place? We just spent a year trying to get you _out…”_ Markus trailed off, broke eye contact, and took a deep breath.

Defeated, Markus moved and sat on the edge of Connor’s unmade bed, his posture slumped.

Connor fidgeted with his fingers, suddenly very much aware of how quiet the house was. The people downstairs could probably hear every word they said.

“How long was I gone?” Connor asked quietly.

Markus looked up, mismatched eyes full of pain. “Three years. Give or take.”

Something told Connor that Markus probably knew the exact number of days he had been absent, but he didn’t press. “I’m sorry.”

Markus let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t apologize.”

“I didn’t mean to cause distress-”

“I thought you would be the one that became the emotional mess,” Markus joked. “Not me. I don’t have any reason for it. I should be happy. You’re back, you’re safe, but I just… How can you be so calm about all of this?”

Connor shrugged, then moved to sit next to Markus on the edge of the bed. Calculating his next words carefully, he looked at the room around him - the unfamiliar room they said was supposed to be his.

“You lost a friend,” Connor said. “Two, if you were friends with Nines. And the man downstairs… He lost his sons. You’ve all lost people you care about. It’s different for me - I have no memory of a life outside the arena. I have nothing to mourn, because I lost nothing."

Connor went on, changing tactics upon seeing Markus become more depressed with what he was saying. “But I gained everything. From where I stand, I just gained a room of my own, a family, a life, a home… I’m not sure what to do with it all. I was happy enough with the new body and someone's spare clothes.”

Markus smiled - it was still watery, but it was there nonetheless. “Those are your clothes, Connor.”

Connor blinked. “Ah. Yes, I suppose that would make sense.”

Markus laughed again, but it sounded lighter this time. He took another breath, then stood up and straightened his jacket. “Alright, come on. Hank’s been dying to see you.”

“Hank,” Connor repeated. “My…dad?"

Markus nodded. “Yeah. He’s missed you a lot. And, he’s in charge of the rescue operation. If you want to help, you’ll have to take it up with him.”

Connor stood to follow Markus, updating his mission objectives as he went.

DIRECTIVES:  
MEET HANK  
CONVINCE HANK TO ALLOW ASSISTANCE  
RESCUE ~~NINES~~ RICHARD

**Author's Note:**

> 😬😬😬 I know, different from what I usually do. I haven't gotten any feedback on this one before posting, so let me know if you guys think it's interesting! If you guys like it then I may do another part... 👀


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